


shatter me (make me feel alive)

by benbarnes



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Crimes & Criminals, Detectives, Gangs, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 06:33:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13698858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benbarnes/pseuds/benbarnes
Summary: Steve Rogers, Detective Sergeant, has been sent to the city of Hedersett to recuperate after a case gone wrong. Although he would much rather deal with his grief in his own way, he follows the monotonous day-to-day activities set before him by his higher ups, however much he hates it.It's only when a murder sends the city reeling that Steve intervenes in Hedersett's criminal underworld, catching the attention of Tony Stark, Hedersett's most infamous mob boss.Caught up in a tangle of mobsters, murder and politics, Steve and Tony try and keep their heads above the water but fate has other plans.





	shatter me (make me feel alive)

**Author's Note:**

> hello guys!! it's been a long goddamn while since i've written any fanfics whatsoever (a good four years lmfao) but i'm back again! i really just couldn't stay away, especially when i was playing lego marvel superheroes 2 and got hit with a flurry of stevetony thoughts and well... i couldn't resist. which leads me to say if the characters feel a little ooc, it's just me getting to grips with them all over again, especially in this setting !
> 
> i digress. i wasn't going to post the first chapter until i was way ahead into the rest of it, but my partner in crime, dianna, insisted i posted it rn and right this minute. 
> 
> so here it is. a work in progress, stevetony steampunk au w gangs, detectives, murder and a whole lotta handwavy steampunk stuff. some additional tags will be added as the story progresses!! 
> 
> for now with this chapter, there is mentioned domestic violence, references to mental asylums and mental health and graphic depictions of murder and everything related to it so take care of yourselves !!
> 
> title; shatter me by lindsey stirling feat. lzzy hale

Hedersett was, in Steve’s opinion, not the worst city he had been to.

It said a lot, since Steve had been to many cities in Terrahold since his promotion from lowly constable to detective sergeant. He had flitted from his home, to neighbouring towns and bigger cities in the south, on cases or chasing after elusive leads. Sometimes, he and Bucky got to take a day to explore the sights and see all there had to see. Other days, they barely got a chance as they raced through paved streets with pounding hearts and eyes just on their targets. Hedersett was one of the very few he hadn’t had the privilege of visiting but now, he supposed was his chance. Though it didn’t much feel like it.

He had settled himself onto one of the benches in the local park, hunched over a leather-bound journal with a pencil in hand. It was beginning to feel more and more like his usual position these days. He had intended to draw the scenery, to catch meagre glimpses of people’s lives from the slightest of details they offered him but his mind, as most days, was against him. The page remained tauntingly blank, the lead of his pencil sharp but nothing clicked. There was no snap of inspiration or itch in his fingers.

Steve sighed, straightening up slightly and closing the journal carefully. It was an old, battered thing; one of the first things he had ever bought himself as a present out of his wages. He could still remember the thrill of having that much money in his pocket, of knowing that he had enough to get him through the week and then some. Pooled with Bucky’s, they felt rich and so much like kings. It hadn’t stopped him from feeling a small sliver of guilt when he paid the man in the shop, for not saving it so he and Bucky could have better. When he had said that to Bucky, Bucky had just laughed and called Steve an idiot. The journal had been worth it, though.

The spine was cracked and held together by a fraying ribbon that was once a brilliant red and was now a dull, insipid shade. There was a splodge of pale brown on the pages from spilled ale in the pubs and there was a distinct splatter of something Steve really hoped was butter. Despite its new imperfections, it still came everywhere with Steve, carefully hidden in the lines of his coat along with a pencil. On a crime scene, or just for a walk, it was always there.

He hadn’t been able to draw since the accident.

He flexed his fingers against the leg of his trousers, the touch used to ground him. He couldn’t let his mind drift into the shadows of his memories again. They were visited often enough at night when he slept, he didn’t need to dwell on them during the day now.

A bright peal of laughter rang in the air, louder than the clatter of trains and the distant hum of the zeppelins. Steve followed the sound, his eyes landing on a cluster of children on the grass. They only looked about seven, with grubby cheeks and hands, scruffy clothes and tousled hair. One of the boys was throwing a lump of coal in the air, over the heads of the boy and girl in the middle of the circle.

Steve couldn’t remember being that carefree at their age. Since he had learned how to speak and walk, he had been riddled with worry. His ma had tried to keep his childhood happy, bless her, but things happened that were out of her control. Having a sickly son was just one of them.

The girl in the centre of the circle suddenly surged up on her bare toes, snagging the lump of coal mid flight and letting out a pleased squeal. The boy she caught it from groaned, jutting his bottom lip out but switched places with her without argument and the game resumed as if it hadn’t been interrupted.

He tore his eyes from their fun, idly thumbing the edge of his journal. These seemed to be his days now; sitting in the parks or wandering the streets. How boring and mundane it was compared to the fast way of living when he had been on duty. To some, it was either commendable or creepy that he garnered so much thrill and excitement from a new case. However big or small, nothing could beat the knot of anxiety that formed, followed by the inexplicable stubbornness of pursuing culprits and questioning suspects and the flutter when he knew he was on the right track.

 With a sigh that was an edge too defeated, Steve secreted his journal and pencil back to their designated position in his jacket and hauled himself to his feet. He hid a wince at the stiffness in his left leg; another souvenir from an accident that wasn't just a funeral for a man with no body and the imprint of blood and soot on his eyelids at night.

He pulled a face, swinging his foot out in an effort to shake away the twinge of pain he felt when he stepped forward. It eased to nothing more than a phantom annoyance as he continued the wandering path towards the bustle of the grey city.

This whole “taking a break" nonsense was just that; _nonsense_. 

So far, sitting in one of Philips’ many safe houses scattered across the region, with just a battered radio and a small influx of letters he couldn't face opening, had done nothing for his supposed crumbling psyche. If anything, Steve felt as though he was heading less in the direction of recovery and more in the direction of the local mental asylum. Twiddling his thumbs in front of a dirty window had stopped being a break and was becoming more and more tedious. Taking walks, sitting in the park while trying to smear graphite on paper in the semblance of an artistic masterpiece now filled Steve's days with a modicum of activity but even they were becoming a bore.

The walks no longer exhausted him, the people made his loneliness more profound and apparent and the paper remained empty. A similar state to Steve's being, if he wanted to be poetic. Or melodramatic. Either worked.

Three whole days of such endeavours had been enough and Steve had told Philips as much. It had been the first letter he had penned since his arrival in Hedersett and had been met with such a brusque reply that his sour mood turned bitter in a matter of a few lines.

“I'm not a lability!” He had raged at his reflection, only to catch the gaze of a dead-eyed man in the mirror with more hurt than anger across his face. Ice had seeped into his veins, the fight drained from his shoulders and when he went to bed, he struggled to sleep that night.

It had chilled him to see the man staring back at him that could have been him if he hadn't accepted the trial medication. The accident had taken its toll on his physical appearance and it was frightening to see the sliver of a boy he had once been. The boy with jutting bones, sharp edges and a pair of lungs that made each breath a struggle. The boy who usually had a mouthful of blood and a nose broken one too many times from scraps in alleyways.

Steve hadn't bothered to write back and burned Philips’ demeaning letter over the squalid kitchen sink. Satisfying for the time it took for the ashes to burn out and leave a mess for him to clean.

Peggy, bless her heart, had written to him not two days later and this time, Steve had forced himself to open it.

 _Dear Steve,_ she had written in her swooping print.

_I'm certain you're pacing holes in the carpet and though Philips deserves the trouble of fixing of whatever you've broken, I do think he's right. Being away from the station will be good for you._

_Please stay put. You'll be back before you know it and Sam and I promise to visit once all the fuss has died down. I know being on your own is not the nicest of things, especially as of late but you know as well as I do that your head isn't in the right place to come back just yet. We can't afford to lose you too, Steve. Not just for someone of your calibre and sheer stubbornness in doing the right thing, but because you're our friend. We love you._  

_Stay in Hedersett. Keep your head down and do try to stay out of trouble won't you? Hard, I know, with your inability to let a crime slide but I’d so like it if you didn't end up on the other side of the prison bars._

_All my love,_

_Peggy_

_P.S: If I catch wind of you trying to return earlier than intended, believe me, Steve, I'll drag you back to the house kicking and screaming._

  _P.P.S: Please answer one of Sam's letters; he's doing my head in asking after you constantly as if I can read minds! If he doesn't hear from you soon, I might end up taking a break to get away. _

For the first time since the funeral, Steve had smiled slightly at the words inked onto the paper. It had been short lived but it had appeared.

Even Peggy didn't want him back.

Still, he forced himself to open Sam's most recent letter and it was a relief not to see the same message of “stay put until we say so”.

_Steve,_

_It's so damn boring around here without you. I haven't got anyone to gossip with on cases any more and there's no one around here with the charm you have to get discounted pastries at the bakery. Though Hodge is still a raging pain in my ass; he's gotten worse since you've left and Pegs is close to knocking out the rest of his teeth. I'll try and persuade her to keep her cool long enough until you get back; we need a good laugh._

_I miss you, man. The station’s not the same any more. Keep in contact, yeah? Need to know how my favourite detective is doing (don't tell Peggy I said that)!_

_And when you get back, the first round at the pub is on me!_

_Stay safe,_

_Sam._

 It hadn't taken the sting out of the bite of being made to stay but Sam had that effect on Steve. Peggy was his compass and Sam was the reason he took a break from work to spend some time in the pubs with everyone else. He felt a little more settled at the idea of staying but not by much.

 He'd penned a brief reply and ignored the piling envelopes on the kitchen table he never used. Spite, genuine anxiety or avoidance, Steve didn't care to name it but he was more than happy to pretend they didn't exist.

 Steve took one last inhale of vaguely fresh air before he stepped out onto the streets.

Central Hedersett was a hubbub of activity from the crack of dawn until the late hours of the night. Even from his tiny bedroom window, Steve could observe the bakers working vigorously at midnight. Markets were strung up throughout the day, selling wares and knick-knacks he didn't want and children chased hoops, stray dogs and each other over cobbles, always narrowly missing a horse and carriage or the occasional car. The zeppelins and airships whirred in the grey-blue sky and there was always a distant rumble from a factory or the clattering of train wheels on tracks.

 The city that never slept, according to Sam.

 Steve patted his jacket to make sure he had his wallet on him in a place where it wouldn’t be thieved from deft hands in the throng of people. He hadn’t been as unfortunate to lose his money in such a way, but he had witnessed it happen to one too many people. He could feel its outline against his breast and then flipped his wrist over to check the time on his watch.

It was a present from his negligent father, whose bar tab used to be longer than Steve in height and a tendency to beat his ma black and blue when he was around while Steve cowered under the dining table. His ma used to hide him, always, whenever his father appeared. She knew he hated seeing her hurt and that he would try and stop it but she also knew that her estranged husband wouldn’t take kindly to his interference. So Steve hid and clasped his hands over his ears and tried not to cry at the bitter taste of failure and defeat when his ma was bruised and bloody not half an hour later.

The only time Joseph Rogers had been a decent human being was when he gifted Steve the watch. It was a man’s watch, he had said as he slipped it onto Steve’s far too skinny wrist, where it dangled like a noose. Steve hadn’t wanted to upset his unusually jovial father and said it was a pretty gift and he really did like it. Except hindsight was a wonderful thing.

There wasn’t a chance Joseph earned such a grand, exquisite little thing with only enough money in his pocket to buy the next drink while Sarah Rogers worked four jobs a week just so Steve wouldn’t starve. The watch had been won in a gamble, he later found out, when Joseph was lucky enough to have the winning hand.  Steve only hung onto it these days for the shred of hope that he might ever find the man his father had cheated or relatives to return it back to its rightful owners. In the grand scheme of things, it wouldn’t do anything to repent for his father’s mistakes, but guilt still nipped at Steve’s heels anyway. 

Steve peered at the face and breathed a sigh of relief at the time. It was only half four, which meant he had just enough time to visit the local pub for a cup of stew.

Another one of his pitiful routines.

Although he ate most of his meals in the safe house, prepared by his own hand, for there was something soothing about going through the motions of cooking, Steve had taken to having lunch at the tavern. The Witches Brew was a good place, despite its name and usual patrons that frequented. It had a homey feel to it, with its chipped cups, hearty stews and soups, the odd busker coming off the streets to perform. Everything was at a decent price and the food was especially edible and wasn’t crawling with unsavoury life forms. Steve had had one too many run ins with pub food that looked as though it was ready to grow legs and wander off onto the street.

He crossed the cobbled road when there wasn’t the likelihood of getting run over and cut through the market. People jostled around him, a rush of unwashed and perfumed bodies assaulting him from every angle. Vendors shouted out their prices and advertisements, women in fine dresses fanned themselves as they inspected a tailor’s fabrics and children wove their way through the gaps between hips and legs as they were wont to do.

Nothing of it really caught Steve’s eye. It wasn’t that he lacked the coin, no, he just wasn’t interested. The only mouth he had to feed was his, so food was easily bought at the grocer’s or from the butcher, he wasn’t wanting for clothes and he certainly wasn’t inclined towards buying pretty jewellery. Peggy would have liked the look of it but even she wasn’t fool enough to buy from a market seller whose wares were likely stolen or faked.

It was only as he reached the end of the row of stalls that he spotted the books. His heart stuttered against its will in his chest at the blank journals and diaries propped up on the stands. One of them in particular, stood out to him like a beacon of light and Steve couldn’t deny himself the urge to go over there and look at it properly. 

It was the same size as the one tucked in his pocket, leather backed and bound with bare pages lined with a gold dusting. He longed to pick it up, turn it over in his hands, breathe in the scent of fresh paper. 

“How much for it?” Steve asked, wincing at the roughness to his voice. How long had it been since he had spoken to someone? Probably not since the night prior when he had helped an elderly lady home after a fall but then, Steve thought with another bite of bitterness, it wasn’t his fault he was stranded without friends in the middle of nowhere. 

The vendor tilted his head, appraising Steve with eyes like a rat and when he smiled, his mouth was filled with yellowed, crooked teeth. “Five bits of silver ‘n’ a couple of coppers.”

Steve whistled out a low breath. Five bits of silver for that? He liked the look of journal but it wasn’t worth that much surely. Nor was it that he couldn’t afford it. Philips had been keen to at least pay Steve a healthy sum for his isolation.

“That’s not a fair price,” he said, with a frown. “Not everyone has that kind of money.” 

The vendor shrugged. “Idiots out there are willin’ to pay, ain’t they?” He turned his head, spitting a glob of saliva on the ground and Steve’s stomach turned in revulsion. His ma would have scolded him for such a disgusting habit. 

“Just because one person’s willing doesn’t make it fair,” he countered. “That’s not how the world works.”

“That’s how this city works,” sneered the vendor, folding his arms over his chest. “You don’t like it? Don’t make you special. You think I’m gonna lower my prices just because someone’s gotta problem with it? Welcome to Hedersett. Everyone’s out for each other. Get used to it or go home.”

 Hot anger swept through Steve’s veins like fire and he gritted his teeth. He didn’t like resorting to violence unless necessary, but this was close to calling for it.

 The seller eyed him coolly. “Now if you ain’t buyin’, get outta here. Don’t need the likes of you ruinin’ my business.”

 Part of Steve ached to pull his badge out and flash it in his face, to try and arrest him on the grounds of something, but he wasn’t on active duty. His words would hold no weight.

 It took all of his willpower to force himself to turn from the smug man and stalk in the direction of the pub. If he hadn’t promised Peggy he would stay out of trouble, he would definitely have dug his heels into the cobbles and argued until the vendor backed down and made his items affordable for everybody. Not a likely outcome, but Steve was as stubborn as a mule, as Peggy liked to say. He just didn’t know when to give up and back down.

His hands shook with barely suppressed frustration, at people who thrived on the misfortune of others, at this damned city, at the accident, at Philips, at Peggy, at Sam-- 

 **_BANG!_ **  

The noise cut through the air, and Steve wasn’t standing in the market any more. _Ash and blood were thick on his tongue, the stench of burning flesh and smog clogging up his nose. His left side ached, and his vision was blurry but he kept crawling, reaching desperately with a bloodied hand to grab onto the wrist of his best friend, to save him--_  

_Except the fingers gave up their fight on the railing and Steve could only stare in horror as Bucky plummeted to his death--_

A woman screamed.

The flashback dissipated around him like mist and he was back in the middle of the street, people crowding and crushing him in a crowd surging forward. He sucked in a shaky breath, sweat prickling across his forehead and the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end. He couldn’t face blinking, to see the way Bucky’s hand had slipped on his eyelids. It was enough seeing it at night.

He stumbled as a young girl barrelled past him towards the front. It was just as he caught his balance that the reality of the situation sunk in. 

Something terrible had happened.

Steve felt his training kicking in and he shoved his hand in his pocket to grab at his badge and began shouldering his way through the crowd. People glowered at him as he passed but let him continue his jostling when their eyes landed on his signia held aloft until he drew up short at the scene laid out in front of him. 

A man was sprawled across the pavement, his glassy, unseeing eyes staring up at the greying sky. Steve crouched a safe distance from the body to get a closer look. 

In the centre of his forehead was the small roundness that could only indicate a bullet. A halo of blood circled the man’s head, soaking his straight flaxen hair, flecked with grey brain matter. It was a calculated shot, no doubt about it. Steve didn’t know any ordinary men who could be given a gun and manage to aim for the forehead and make sure the bullet hit home. Perhaps by luck but this wasn’t what Steve would describe as a lucky shot. No, this was precise and done by someone who knew what they were doing.

He followed the bullet hole and resting place, up over the heads of the crowd and with grim satisfaction, noted exactly where the gun had been fired. Whoever had killed the victim, had done so on top of the bakery and was long gone. Steve suppressed a small sigh. This case was getting more complex by the minute.

The woman who had screamed was standing a foot away, her hands clasped over her mouth and was heaving great hulking sobs as she trembled. She looked pale, her cheeks streaked with tears and spattered with drops of red. Another lady had her arms wrapped around her shuddering shoulders, making soft soothing noises as a mother would comforting her babe. 

“I-I didn’t do it,” she sobbed when Steve glanced towards her. “He- He was my husband, I would never--” 

“I believe you, ma’am,” Steve said firmly but kindly, before she could ramble further. He wasn’t much good at calming distressed witnesses by himself, especially women. Peggy normally handled it but since he was on his own, he would have to try his best.

He wasn’t lying either. Judging by the shell-shocked expression her delicate face, and just from the bullet wound alone, he knew it wasn’t her. A gut feeling, and usually, his gut was right. 

The woman whimpered and whether that noise was of relief or fear, Steve couldn’t tell. 

“Have the police been called?” he asked her gently and she nodded frantically, as the young lady holding her piped up, “I called them.”

He turned slightly to look at her properly. She was a young thing, with keen grey eyes peering out from underneath waves of dark hair. “Are you a witness?”

“I was with them the entire time,” she confirmed and Steve reached for his journal. It wasn’t his official work one, but it would have to do.

“Would it be possible for you two to give me your names and addresses?” he enquired. “I won’t be able to ask you any questions right at this moment, but I will need to when the other policemen show up.”

The darker haired woman nodded. “My name is Darcy Lewis, and this is my sister, Jane Blake,” She jerked her chin towards the corpse. “Her husband was Donald Blake. We live at number forty-eight, Rosewalk Drive.” 

Steve scribbled it down hurriedly on the first blank page he came to. His mind was already whirring with possibilities and motives and suspects. It would take far longer than just a moment of thinking to form an idea, and he needed more information but he couldn’t very well ask for it here, with a crowd like vultures behind him and a woman heartbroken and traumatised. 

“You two head on home,” he said, rising smoothly to his feet. “I’ll schedule an appointment with you as soon as I have need.” 

Darcy gave him a look that he couldn’t interpret. “Thank you, sir,” she said and gave her sister’s shoulders a squeeze. “Come on, Janey, let’s get you home.” Without waiting for a reply, she lead her still sobbing sister from the scene of the crime.

Steve watched them go, chewing on the inside of his cheek. While he believed Jane to not be the culprit, something about Darcy that didn’t sit right. He would definitely be looking into her when he made the appointment to see them.

He added an _S_ to the side of her name and was just adding his notes that he had figured out when a voice called out behind him, “Police, coming through!”  

 _About damn time_ , Steve thought but turned to greet the officers that materialised through the gradually dissipating crowd. Clearly with the excitement over, they were ready to go home and gossip. No doubt that the newspapers would be all over this come morning. Steve hated the press.

The policeman that reached him first was a man just an edge stockier than Steve, with an oval face and ruddy cheeks. He gave Steve a once over, his mouth pursed slightly. “You’re not from around here.” 

An astute, albeit suspicious, observation if Steve ever saw one. Not that he blamed the man in the slightest; if someone appeared at a crime scene in Meckport like he knew what he was doing, Steve too would have been suspicious. He inclined his head. “No, sir, I’m not. I’m Detective Rogers from Meckport,” Before the officer could ask, he handed over his badge. 

The officer’s expression cleared and he passed it back to Steve, who pocketed it quickly. “Inspector Hogan,” he said, clearing his throat. “Happy to my friends,” His eyes slid past Steve to the body on the ground and he let out a low whistle. “ _Shit_.”  

“That about sums it up, sir,” Steve sighed.

Hogan moved past him with the gait of a boxer, one that Steve was intimately familiar with. After Bucky’s death and before Peggy’s intervention, Steve had taken up boxing in the rings in Meckport. Usually teeming with the low class criminals but he didn’t care. It wasn’t if he went there to work; he went there to bleed. Most boxers there had a typical walk; they took every step like they were the pinnacle of invincibility. 

As Hogan went through the motions, Steve let his gaze wander around the street. The crowd had virtually dispersed and the market was back in its usual bustle, but looks were occasionally cast their way. He ignored them, setting his sights back on the top of the bakery and then around it. There was no clear way the killer could have gotten up there without access to the bakery itself, surely? Unless there was an alley and a way up to the roof around the back but people weren’t usually that lucky. Steve wasn’t going to discard it as an option, though; he needed as much information as he could get, however abysmal. 

It was as he went to turn back to Hogan that he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, standing on the bend outside the bakery. He stiffened, honing in on the figure who simply stood and appeared to be staring. A curious onlooker to anyone who wasn’t in the police force, but it never paid to be careful.

The person looked like a woman, but they were dressed in back, with a tumble of pale blonde hair, and when Steve took a step forward, to either shoo or ask if they wanted something, they were off down the road.

Instinct kicked in.

“Stay there, Hogan, I might have a lead.” He said sharply and didn’t wait for Hogan’s reply; he bolted after them, shoving his journal in his pocket as he went. 

He was aware that Hogan shouted something after him and whatever it was was lost in the air. Steve would have to apologise and explain later. 

Adrenaline coursed through him as he sprinted. There used to be a time where he couldn’t run like this, not without making him keel over from a chronic asthma attack. Since he took the medication, all that had changed. It helped, really. In a job like this, Steve had to get used to running. There was always one criminal who thought they could escape.

The figure veered right, cutting down another road and Steve ducked through a gap between a lovestruck couple, muttering out an apology when they squawked in alarm. He had closed the gap between them considerably, thanks to his training, but the distance was still not enough for Steve to grab them.

He pushed himself harder, calves and thighs burning from disuse, as he followed the figure around another curve-

Only to skid to a halt.

Steve froze, sucking in huge lungfuls of air as he stared at the empty alleyway. There was no figure, no person. Just a bricked up wall, marked with graffiti and ankle-deep rubbish. Unless the suspect suddenly gained the ability to sift through walls or climb up them, they were gone.

He let out a string of curses that would have made his ma stick a sliver of soap in his mouth. Surely he hadn’t mistaken the turn? No, there was no way he could have.

Yet, it didn’t matter about his surety. The suspect had escaped and outwitted him in a city in he hadn’t deigned to investigate and with it, so was a potential lead.

His stomach sunk. Damn it all to hell. Now he was going to have to return to Hogan empty-handed. He wasn’t exactly proving he was a seasoned detective these days, it seemed. From leave to letting a person go because he hadn’t been quick enough.

He scrubbed at his face with a hand, wiping away the sweat that had broken out across his forehead and turned back to the mouth of the alley. 

“Time to be the bearer of bad news,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. “ _Fuck_.”  

What a mess he had become. 

He cast another quick look around his surroundings, for anything before sighing again and moved to retrace his steps.

Something behind him moved.

Steve whirled, his guards going up but he was too slow. Something sharp scratched into his neck, right on his pulse point with the accuracy of a snake going in for the kill and a slender arm hooked around his waist in a lover’s embrace. 

He tried to swing out, but his limbs all at once felt too heavy, and his eyes stung at the effort of trying to keep them open. Whatever had been injected in his system was working damn fast and against his will, he felt himself sinking back into the steady body to keep him upright. 

As his vision began to blur, there was the brush of lips at his ear.

“Goodnight, Detective,” A husky voice whispered and it was the last thing he heard before the world became dark.

 


End file.
